"Jack Finney - Invasion of the Body Snatchers" - читать интересную книгу автора (Finney Jack)

We all glanced out at the lawn again; Uncle Ira was idly kicking with the side of his foot at a weed or
pebble or something imbedded in the lawn. "Every little move, everything about him is exactly like Ira's."
Her face still redcheeked and round as a circle, but lined now with anxiety, Wilma sat staring at me, eyes
intense. "I've been waiting for today," she whispered. "Waiting till he'd get a haircut, and he finally did."
Again she leaned toward me, eyes big, her voice a hissing whisper. "There's a little scar on the back of
Ira's neck; he had a boil there once, and your father lanced it. You can't see the scar," she whispered,
"when he needs a haircut. But when his neck is shaved, you can. Well, today тАУ I've been waiting for
this! тАУ today he got a haircutтАУ"
I sat forward, suddenly excited. "And the scar's gone? You meanтАУ"
"No!" she said, almost indignantly, eyes flashing. "It's there тАУ the scar тАУ exactly like Uncle Ira's!"
I didn't answer for a moment. Staring down at the tip of my shoe, I didn't dare glance at Becky, and
for a moment I couldn't look at poor Wilma. Then I raised my head, looking her squarely in the eyes, and
said it: "Then look, Wilma, he is Uncle Ira. Can't you see that? No matter how you feel, he isтАУ"
She just shook her head and sat back on the swing. "He's not."
For a moment I was stuck, rattled; I couldn't think of anything else to say. "Where's your Aunt Aleda?"
"It's all right; she's upstairs. Just be sure he doesn't hear."
I sat chewing my lip, trying to think. "What about his habits, Wilma?" I said then. "Little mannerisms?"
"All the same as Uncle Ira's. Exactly."
Of course I shouldn't have, but for an instant I lost my patience. "Well, what is the difference, then? If
there isn't any, how can you tellтАУ" I quieted right down, and tried to be constructive. "Wilma, what about
memories? There must be little things only you and Uncle Ira would know."
Pushing her feet against the floor, she began gently rocking the swing, gazing out at Uncle Ira, who was
staring up at a tree now, as though wondering if it didn't need pruning. "I've tested that, too," she said
quietly. "Talked to him about when I was a child." She sighed, trying uselessly, and knowing it was
useless, to make me understand.
"Once, years ago, he took me with him into a hardware store. There was a miniature door, set in a little
frame, standing on the counter, an advertisement for some kind of lock, I think. It had little hinges, a little
doorknob, even a tiny brass knocker. Well, I wanted it, of course, and raised a fuss when I couldn't have
it. He remembers that. All about it. What I said, what the clerk said, what he said. Even the name of the
store, and it's been gone for years. He even remembers things I'd forgotten completely тАУ a cloud we saw
late one Saturday afternoon, when he called for me at the movie after the matinee. It was shaped like a
rabbit. Oh, he remembers, all right тАУ everything. Just as Uncle Ira would have."
I'm a general practitioner, not a psychiatrist, and I was out of my depth and knew it. For a few
moments I just sat staring down at the interlaced fingers and the backs of my hands, listening to the chains
of the swing creaking gently overhead.
Then I made one more try, talking quietly, and as persuasively as I could, remembering not to talk
down to Wilma and that whatever might have happened to it, her brain was a good one. "Look, Wilma,
I'm on your side; my business is people in trouble. This is trouble and needs fixing, and you know that as
well as I do, and I'm going to find a way to help you. Now, listen to me. I don't expect you, or ask you,
to suddenly agree that this has all been a mistake, that it's really Uncle Ira after all, and you don't know
what could have happened to you. I mean I don't expect you to stop feeling emotionally that this isn't
your uncle. But I do want you to realize he's your uncle, no matter what you feel, and that the trouble is
inside you. It's absolutely impossible for two people to look exactly alike, no matter what you've read in
stories or seen in the movies. Even identical twins can always be told apart тАУ always тАУ by their intimates.
No one could possibly impersonate your Uncle Ira for more than a moment, without you, Becky, or even
me, seeing a million little differences. Realize that, Wilma, think about it and get it into your head, and
you'll know the trouble is inside you. And then we'll be able to do something about it."
I sat back against the porch column тАУ I'd shot my wad тАУ and waited for an answer.
Still swinging gently, her foot pushing rhythmically against the floor, Wilma sat thinking about what I'd
just said. Then тАУ eyes staring absently off across the porch тАУ she pursed her lips, and slowly shook her